Chapter 4: Knight in spectral armour

G'day loyal readers (that's right reader*s*... I got two comments now :P). Here's chapter 4: Knight in spectral armour. If you want to read from the start click 'here'.

Ægon grinned, laughing at his new friend’s outrageous tale. In the graveyard at the temple of Morr a fearsome group gathered, a ghostly group of rag-tag spirits. The mob of deceased included warriors fallen in battle throughout the ages, criminals and priests from days forgotten laughing together, criminals and priests from more recent times avoiding each other. Any spirit that had been part of the group for any amount of time felt no discrimination for any other member. For after death does it matter that the person next to you in life would have ripped out your jugular on sight? At the same time criminals couldn’t profit any from violence, thus many went about earning redemption after death to save them from whatever fate awaited them. Morr’s harvesters took the worst elements that were beyond redemption to their own personal hell, so those spirits that remained all had redemption within their grasp, and thus were accepted.

Ægon’s new friend was a baresark in life, from a Norse tribe near where Ægon was brought up. In his life Bjorn was undefeatable in single combat, and never succumbed to death despite the horrific injuries inflicted upon him until he was brave/stupid enough to go face to face with a cannon while attacking Romah. It turns out being able to go into a killing rage where you would rip friend and foe apart alike gave one a unique viewpoint in life. The scarred warrior’s stories were exaggerated in Norse legend, and at some time the news of this had found its war to the departed warrior, and he told the tales back but with the flourish of a true storyteller who has much practice expanding on the truth the end result was a preposterous series of antidotes that were verging upon biblical with divine self-inclusion made even more ridiculous by the fact that these stories were not only the stuff of legends and actually were centred around true events. The Norscan baresark managed to diverge from the legends with humorous footnotes, brining the story back to reality but expanding upon the incredibility of the story yet further.

“So, I didn’t really have a clue about the ambush, I just wanted a root, and as a rare occurrence didn’t want to kill nobody,” the baresark said, “If I had know they were around the corner I woulda got mad and charged off to kill ‘em. But instead I got lucky and liv-.” They were interrupted by a scream of pain from a northerly direction. A few of the newest members of the group reacted, but the group for the most part ignored it. Ægon however was up and running north, toward the scream. Bjorn was easily keeping up and asked curiously “Why are you running? You can’t fix anything you know.” Ægon looked back over his shoulder and replied grinning, “You can’t. I can. I'm not entirely dead, you see.” Surprisingly Bjorn took it in his stride, after death most things get a lot less surprising. Bjorn grinned, “Well, if you’re a bit dead ya might be able to get there a bit faster. You gotta forget your old limitations, when you’re dead not a lot slows you down.” Suddenly turning Bjorn ran through the wall, and mentally kicking himself Ægon followed.

The ghostly pair ran through the wall, darting through what could be seen to be a cobbler’s shop, with boots standing everywhere, covering the many work-benches around the building. Turning and looking back at Ægon, Bjorn grinned. “You won’t get tired, so sprint all the way.” Nodding Ægon sprinted through the work desk, and without checking barrelled through the wall. “That’s what I like to see!” Bjorn bellowed, his ethereal beard of white, yet somehow clear, yet somehow black hair being pulled at by a wind unfelt by mortals. The pair ran on through the night towards the scream, agonisingly sounding out not only on the mortal plane but also on the ghostly, ethereal plane. The scream grew louder as the pair of dead Norsemen came closer, closing the distance between them and the tortured cry.

They stormed into a pub via the east wall, and halted dumbfounded at the sight in front of them. Several yards above the centre of the room was the ghost of a young girl screaming in tortured pain as blinding light surrounded her body. She looked at Ægon for a moment tears in her eyes. “Help me, please, anyone help.” She cried ghostly tears that disappeared before coming close to the ground. Beneath her stood an Inquisitor of the White Order, distinguished by the paraphernalia covering him and emerging from his heavy trenchcoat. A necklace of gold held an amulet set with a diamond that glowed brightly. Beneath the folds of leather that made up his trenchcoat lay a bandoleer of wooden stakes. Porcelain trinkets hung off his garments everywhere, with parchment confirming his faith forming a mask with which he hid his lower face. A ring of white clad priests stood around the room chanting in a language Ægon had never heard before, but it was obviously causing the ghost pain. Ægon ran into the centre of the room, appearing on the mortal plane before the congregation, envisioning not only a sword of ice, but also a set of plate armour to match, all of glimmering ethereal ice. “Stop!” he yelled and the room fell silent, but for a voice on the spiritual plane laughing. “Yeah right, they really gonna stop coz you said so…”

However only Ægon could hear this, the voice of the dead baresark silent to the living, and the girl ghost was in too much torment to hear anything. Suddenly the chanting halted as the Inquisitor held out a hand. “Banish the unholy knight to his hell before we continue with the seductress’s spirit!” Drawing an ornamental crossbow loaded with a large wooden stake the Inquisitor started to chant, leading the priests in a hymnal, which wracked Ægon’s essence with a horrible, impossible agony. Ægon screamed and fell to the floor writhing in pain. The spectral girl fell to the ground the moment the priests stopped in their chant, and now attempted to run away. However she came to the walls of the building and couldn’t pass through them. As soon as she touched the walls white lightning struck her, appearing from an orb held up by a pair of priests, who were no longer hidden from Ægon in the darkness. Ægon however cared not; as he now found himself being lifted up slowly as the Inquisitor lead the chant. “Boy!” Bjorn yelled over the screaming in the ethereal plane. “Ye gotta fight it if ya want to fix anythin’! The pain is your friend in a fight!” However this was ignored by a spasming Ægon, who only felt pain unlike any he had felt whist alive.

Sighing the baresark thought to himself, “He better be able to fix this mess…” From his corner of the room he charged screaming at one of the priests who could not see him. Drawing upon his self will he forced himself onto the mortal plane, not truly as did Ægon but showing himself to the priest who stopped chanting and screamed as this new ghostly foe shimmered into and quickly out again. The priest was a young noviate brought on this inquisitorial mission reluctantly out of fear and awe of the inquisitor. His nerves were on edge as he chanted, and when the spirit of a baresarking lunatic charging towards him, bellowing was cries and screaming, tattoos and scars showing on a face distorted by rage and death only to disappear moments before barrelling into him he panicked. In pure terror he collapsed on the ground his pleas for mercy from his ghostly assailant interrupting the chant. Ægon dropped to the ground as the chant stopped, just as Bjorn exhausted with the effort needed to show his essence on the mortal plane fell to the ground just next to the young noviate pleading for him to be spared. Ægon grinned and suddenly rose to his feet, simultaneously calling on his magic to blast cold wind throughout the room. Suddenly everyone alive in the room flew back, away from Ægon who started running, unhampered by his weightless spectral armour. He ran up to the prone from of the Inquisitor and thrust the tip his sword through the mask of faded scripture on aged paper.

As the paper slowly stained crimson he yelled in a voice that was both terrifying and noble, commanding from both sheer terror and from righteousness. “Priests, I cannot think what would have caused you to torture the spirit of a young girl, but I do not wish to take your lives. Take this body and dispose of it as your faith will, and take those of you that I have hurt to the temple of Ani. There they can get the healing they require.” Pausing a moment he surveyed the room. Most of the priests were somewhere between hate and terror, but none spoke as they cringed in the corner of the room. Bjorn’s spectral body lay limp on the floor, and near the wall so did the body of the girl, who Ægon noticed only now was actually quite a pretty girl. Distracting him the youngest noviate spoke up “Why is it that you spare us? You break our relic, kill Inquisitor Proxus, and then spare us? We wont be pawns in your evil schemes!” Hysterical the noviate finished the sentence almost screaming, tears running down his face.

“I'm not evil; I just came to help this poor girl here. You were torturing fair maiden with your spell, an-” Suddenly Ægon was cut off silenced by the voice of one of the older priests. “We don’t traffic in foul majiks like your dark master! That girl is an abomination against the light! Otherwise the chant of cleansing would not of affected her! Or you! Which evil warlock do you serve spectre?! We shall not bend to his will!” Ægon attempted to explain to the group that he didn’t ‘serve’ any ‘warlock’, nor was he evil. However he had met xenophobia before (although never against ghosts), and soon gave up the attempt. Gathering up the spectral bodies of Bjorn and the ghostly girl whose name he didn’t even know he vanished from the mortal plane, and carried the pair of spirits back to the Inn where he knew Iryl and the recently recovered Jarrod would be asleep in the small basement room.

****

Lit only my candlelight Ægon explained the situation to Iryl and Jarrod, as the flickering light illuminated the lilliputian necromancers face casing dancing shadows on the stone walls behind him. Iryl explained, “They’ll be alright in time, their essences have been badly worn down. In fact…” Pausing a moment in his speech, Iryl concentrated moment, and with glowing green hands he touched them, first the scarred baresark, then the nameless girl ghost. “Picked yourself a looker!” Jarrod started, before continuing with his normal tact, “Hey Iryl, can ghosts take a roll in the hay with each other, if you know what I mean?”

Chapter 5 is in progress. If you want to read it so far its at: http://otherworlds-fantasymultiverse.blogspot.com/2007/11/version-58-early.html

Thankyou for reading